


Painkiller

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Series: Whumptober 2020 [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caring Peter Hale, Fluff, Guilt, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Relationship, Swearing, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: "The migraines came soon after the Nogitsune left his body and mind. It’s one of the remnants. He would have asked Deaton about them, but the guy didn’t answer his phone - just like Derek ... - and the animal clinic was abandoned when Stiles checked last. He could ask one of the werewolves to be his personal pain-drainer, but he can’t.Not after what happened."~After the Nogitsune is gone, Stiles suffers from migraines. He doesn't dare to ask for help, until it gets unbearable. He's suprised to find out that someone really cares.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Whumptober 2020 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949101
Comments: 7
Kudos: 409
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Painkiller

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober Day 25: Blurry Vision

Stiles groans and buries his face in his pillow. His head is trying to kill him. Literally.

Sparks of light explode behind his closed eyes and it feels like someone is swinging a hammer against his temples rhythmically. 

_God._ He needs painkillers. 

When Stiles carefully rolls on his back and opens his eyes, his vision is blurry and the world sways. His room is a mess of colors without shapes.

Stiles feels miserable. He feels like he is a tiny boat on the ocean, tossed around by violent stormy waves. 

These migraines suck so much. They suck more than anything else. They make Stiles wish he could just pass out and forget about everything.

The migraines came soon after the Nogitsune left his body and mind. It’s one of the remnants. He would have asked Deaton about them, but the guy isn't answering his phone - just like Derek ... - and the animal clinic was abandoned when Stiles checked last. He could ask one of the werewolves to be his personal pain-drainer, but he can’t.  
  
Not after what happened. 

Scott, Isaac, Lydia … They barely look at him these days. And Stiles gets it. He can barely stand looking at himself and avoids mirrors like the pest. 

The pain intensifies and Stiles whimpers, massaging his temples. Right … The painkillers. He wanted to get them. But Goddamn, they are in the bathroom right? Can he walk to the bathroom like this? Or is he going to collapse?

Stiles blinks into the sunlight and wishes he would have closed the curtains earlier, when he was still able to move. The light is making everything worse. He feels so sick. His stomach contracts and he bends forward, wrapping an arm around it. 

Fuck this. Fuck everything. And everyone. Mostly himself. 

Well, the migraine always stops sometime. He just has to be patient. It will pass. But today, it only seems to get worse, until he shakes and whimpers and grits his teeth till his jaw feels numb. Fuck. Shit, fuck, fuck, Stiles thinks, matching the thougths to every sharp hammer blow of pain. This has to stop. It has to. It will. It has to … 

It doesn’t. 

Stiles groans in defeat and reaches for his phone sluggishly. He scrolls through his contacts and stops at one, swallowing. He hesitates. The pain hits him again and he exhales shakily, typing with trembling fingers.   
  


_Can you come over. Please.  
  
_

Stiles' face burns. He sounds pathetic. So damn pathetic. He flinches when his phone vibrates only a few breaths later. He reads the answer and his eyes widen in surprise.  
  


_Sure. I’ll be there in a minute._   
  


Stiles blinks. He didn’t expect Peter to answer in literally seconds. He throws the phone away again and holds his head, willing it to stop exploding every few seconds, without much effect. He waits, feeling glad that Peter agreed to come. They have gotten along quite well lately. With Peter, silence doesn't feel so uncomfortable.

He doesn’t know how much time does pass until Peter arrives, maybe minutes. Maybe more. Maybe less. Stiles blinks, wishing his vision wouldn’t be so blurry, because he has to make sure if the expression on Peter’s face really is worry. 

Peter looks down at him, sniffs and wrinkles his nose. “You should take a shower, sweetheart.” 

Stiles chuckles weakly and immediately regrets it, because it makes the place right above his right eye pulse like crazy. “So-sorry, can’t get up. Either live with it or leave.” He grimaces. Talking ... makes it worse. Of course.

Peter sighs heavily like he is the one who is suffering. He sits on the edge of the bed and raises a hand, arching his brow. “May I?” 

“I hoped you would,” Stiles admits carefully. 

Peter lays his hand on Stiles’ forehead without another word. It feels so good, even before Peter starts to pull the pain away. His hand is heavenly cool on Stiles’ heated skin. Black lines crawl up Peter’s hand, wrist and arm. He doesn’t even wince. He just sits there, his face composed while he takes the pain, washing it out of Stiles’ head. 

“Oh my God,” Stiles breathes, feeling floaty all of a sudden. The pain swims away wave by wave and his head starts to feel clear. “Oh God.” He almost sobs in relief. 

“Better?” Peter asks him, taking his hand away. 

“Much,” Stiles sighs, just laying there sprawled out like a starfish, enjoying not being in pain. “Thank you.” 

“You are very welcome. That … was a lot of pain, Stiles,” Peter says, frowning. “Don’t you have any painkillers here?” 

“Yeah, but … One: they are in the bathroom. And two: they don’t always work anymore,” Stiles murmurs. 

Peter hums. When Stiles looks up at him, his vision is not so blurry anymore and what he sees on Peter’s face now is definitely worry, yes. There is a bit of sweat gathering at Peter’s temples and Stiles wonders if it is because of all the pain the werewolf pulled out of him. All of a sudden, he feels guilty. The feeling is familiar by now. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. 

“What for?” Peter asks, raising his brows. 

“You … You took all my pain. You shouldn’t have to,” Stiles says, swallowing around the quickly forming lump in his throat. “I should just endure it.” 

“Stiles … That was nothing. Trust me, I know much worse,” Peter says lightly. And maybe he notices that this doesn’t calm Stiles down at all, because he quickly adds, “I am glad when I can help you. I mean it.” 

Stiles blinks in surprise. “Really?” He is so used to Peter being sarcastic and dramatic and not … well, not so, sincere and gentle. It's a nice change. It feels special because a part of Stiles thinks Peter reserves this side of him for specific moments.

Peter nods, his face completely serious. “Really.” 

“Oh.” Stiles makes and feels a bit stupid. It’s … nice. It’s nice to know Peter cares. He thinks he is blushing, but he is not sure. He still feels pleasantly floaty. Feels like being wrapped in cotton.

Peter eyes him for a long moment, then he puts his hand on Stiles’ forehead again, checking for leftover pain. When he can’t find any, he gets up and says, “You _definitely_ should take a shower now, Stiles. You smell like old socks.” He ignores Stiles’ “Hey!” and adds, “I will make you something proper to eat, if you don’t mind. But I might have to do some groceries before, since I checked the fridge when I came here and it’s practically empty,” he wrinkles his nose. 

Stiles stares up at him, incredulously. “Uh.” 

Peter nods and smirks. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back in a moment. With proper nutrients. We can feed the Sheriff too. God knows he needs something else than the greasy burgers he eats at the station.” 

And before Stiles can comment on any of this, Peter winks at him and disappears as fast as he came. 

Stiles stares after the werewolf, totally at loss for words and thoughts. The only thing he can think is that he is kind of sad Peter’s touch is gone. He could get used to it. And this time, he can feel himself blushing. Hard. 

Stiles sighs and gets up, trotting towards the bathroom. 

Suddenly, he really really doesn’t want to smell like old socks. Especially not to Peter. 


End file.
